


they died with me...

by scribblemyname



Series: Be Compromised 2014 Promptathon [7]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 3+1 Things, Angst, Backstory, Community: be_compromised, F/M, Love, Love Is for Children, PTSD, Post-Battle of New York (Marvel), Red Room, References to Canon-Typical Violence, Romance, Survivor Guilt, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/pseuds/scribblemyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or 3 Times Clint Told Natasha He Loved Her and 1 Time She Told Him</p><p>Natasha's ledger gushes with red. "I have a very specific skillset. I didn't care who I used it for—or on." Clint loves her anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they died with me...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> Prompt by franztastisch: [Because every Hozier song screams Clint/Nat at me in some capacity; When I was a child, I heard voices, Some would sing and some would scream. You soon find you have few choices, I learned the voices died with me. [Arsonist's Lullabye, Hozier]](http://be-compromised.livejournal.com/412023.html?thread=7833207#t7833207)
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to shenshen77 for the first pass.

"I love you," he says one time, lying tangled in the heat of her body and their tousled blankets. It was a slip, the first time he'd said the words, and he hadn't meant to breathe in her scent and breathe out his secret, knowing she would not like it.

Natasha is... Natasha. Trust extends only to the edge of her comfort zone.

She sits up in a mess of red curls and flushed limbs, forcing him to free his hand before he yanks on her hair. Her brow furrows in an understated frown.

"There were other widows," she finally says, a space of a breath passing between those and her next words. "They all died with me."

It takes him a moment to register what she means, what she's really saying, and then to formulate a response. "Were those your orders?" he asks slowly, carefully, as if he is tiptoeing through a minefield. In a way, he is.

There is horror in the cool, quiet way she says, "I didn't care, Clint," and she looks at him, as though daring him to love her anyway.

He is who he is, and his hands are far from clean of blood.

"I love you," he says, still softly but with far more confidence, knowing now it isn't going to scare her away.

Natasha sighs with resignation, eyes full of some nameless sorrow as she slides back into his arms and tucks her head against his chest and traces a scar under his ribcage with an idle hand. "Love is for children," she whispers.

He does not ask her to clarify, only holds her a little tighter and strokes her back until her breath is shallow and even with sleep.

* * *

"I love you," Clint says once when he is drunk and staring up at her, her red hair haloed in light so she looks like the sun.

It was a long assignment, but her lips are thin, if her expression fond as she yanks him out of the chair and drapes his arm over her shoulder. Natasha never likes it when he gets too drunk or when he drinks only a little and it gives him a mission-quality edge that doesn't belong in their downtime.

"You're perfect," he tells her, unfiltered through the alcohol haze and the knowledge that she is there to have his back. It's a dual unlock and one that surprised him when he first started spilling secrets to her over vodka. "You're perfect," he murmurs into her neck, muffling the words.

It draws out a Russian curse and she slams him none too gently against the wall outside the bar, still supporting him but letting the wall take most of his weight.

Natasha glares at him. "You think you have nightmares?" she demands suddenly, surprisingly.

Clint squints at her but listens. She's been there for most of his nightmares, held him with shocking gentleness as if she could bandage his wounds with merely the soft sound of her voice.

"I dream of children singing, then screaming," she says. "They all die with me."

He gets it then, what is bothering her, and reaches forward to lean his forehead against hers. He can smell her sweat and her Thai-food breath and see the raw emotion in her eyes. If he were not drunk, if he could stand without her help, she would never let him get this close.

"I love you," he says, as heated and vehement as her own declarations.

A wounded animal cry burrows into her throat, swallowed quickly but undeniable.

He holds onto her and yanks her against him, his back digging into the wall, and somehow he is the one standing, and she is the one leaning on him so she can.

* * *

"I love you," he tells her, begs her as she is packing her bags for a solo mission to babysit Stark. What he means is, _Stay. I need you, I love you, I'll be whatever kind of partner you want, but stay._

Both of them knew this day was coming like an oncoming train.

Too many times Natasha stared at him with that sorrow in her eyes, too many times whispered 'love is for children' when asked by others what she feels for Clint, and too many times shut herself in alone after working a mission to clean up the Red Room. Through it all, he held her, supported her, sparred with her when she just needed to vent.

He's too d— perfect, and she's been itching for a solo assignment for months, problem being both of them know once you break up a partnership, it's hard as a brick wall to get it back together. With Strike Team Delta on the shelf, he'll land at New Mexico, and heaven only knows when they'll let him off of that.

He rests his hand on hers for a moment. She pauses on the luggage and meets his gaze for the first time since she gave him the news.

"They won't send me to Russia without you, Clint," she says softly, a concession when that softness reaches her eyes. "I need a record for working alone."

They don't send her to Russia without him for a reason. There's Red Room there, not quite stamped out, and everyone knows if she goes on her own, it'll be her defection or a bloody vengeance SHIELD isn't willing to own.

But she still has nightmares. She still weeps because she does care now about the blood she shed while under their control. She still wonders what it would be like to know that her old handlers are gone and she can choose any path she wants. She chose SHIELD because they gave her the resources to bring down the Red Room. What would it be like to choose SHIELD for its own sake?

He nods. He accepts, even if he doesn't want to. He kisses her long and lingering and tells her one last time, "I love you," before letting her walk out the door.

* * *

 

After the funerals and memorial services have ended, Natasha finds Clint pulling away from her. He has managed to be present for every event in the long line of the aftermath of the Battle of New York, but she can tell he's not really coping, just pushing off the pain for another day to keep going.

She doesn't let him pull away. She keeps her fingers threaded through his and follows quietly wherever he goes with a small smile that signals to everyone that all is normal. It's not quite, but Clint does nothing to disabuse them.

It's only when they reach his apartment that he tries actively to disentangle his hand from hers.

Natasha is stubborn when she has to be and she holds on until he blinks at her, surprised. They have always respected each other's boundaries— _always_.

She meets his gaze evenly. "I love you," she says.

It makes him catch his breath and take a step back, physically trying to escape the weight of her words. She's never said it before and that she chooses _now_ to change things, when he finally understands from personal experience just how deep the self-loathing can go...

She reaches for him, puts her other hand on his shoulder, and says it again, "I love you."

"They're dead, Tasha," he finally explodes. "They're dead because they trusted me and I killed them."

His whole body is taut with tension. She knows what this is because she feels it echoing inside herself as she shakes. _Voices in the dark, singing, screaming, and they all died with her_.

She doesn't deny it because he could not bear it. "I know, Clint." She looks at him, and he knows that she does know, that she has lived it.

He finally slides to the floor, back against the couch, shaking as he deals with all the grief and guilt that's been building up while he refused to look at it. She holds onto him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, head tucked against his as he grips her tight enough to hurt.

"I love you," she whispers, holding him close, letting him weep.


End file.
